Monday, February 23, 2009

Maybe I'm Still Dreaming?

I think of you
when the morning sun splashes
through the flowered curtains.

The textured patterns on the bed
bring the memory of your face pillowed
in thick brown hair,
lips slightly parted and moist,
breasts rising softly
in the muted breathing of slumber.

I rub my eyes
and the memory is gone.
Only dust motes dancing
in the shaft of sunlight remain.

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